


Twist the Sinews

by mochroimanam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Fear Play, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Play, Stream of Consciousness, psychological fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochroimanam/pseuds/mochroimanam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a given that James Moriarty is dangerously unpredictable. But it's one thing to know that fact while standing armed at his side and another entirely to know while tied up in the dark at his mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist the Sinews

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to William Blake, and the aspects of grammar I threw out the window for creativity's sake. 
> 
> If you find the format jarring at first, stick with it, it evens out partway through.
> 
>  
> 
> Now available as a [German podfic](http://momotastic27.tumblr.com/post/29300736183/so-a-few-nights-ago-i-promised-erica-id), translated and recorded by [momotastic!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/momotastic)

"Tyyyyyger..."

The sing-song whisper wriggles its way into his mind, calling him forward, liquid slithering into the depths of his subconscious until he's drowning and disoriented and awake, pulse catapulting from steady to pounding in seconds.

"Tyyyyyger..."

It's a spectral, smoky, intangible thing, unfurling in the darkness without any hint of direction or location, and Sebastian waits, locking his breath captive in his lungs and listening so hard it's nearly painful.

"Tyger, _tyyyy_ ger..."

Drops soft and pure into the stillness like an aria, and this time Sebastian is better able to judge the source, straining his eyes toward the far corner of the bedroom, visual acuity betrayed by the suffocating dark—and while he _knows_ what it is, knows, it doesn’t take the edge off the panic that he has no right to be feeling, and—

"Burning _bright_..."

The night purrs, wickedly sharper and unassailable, suddenly impossibly closer to him despite his ears straining to hear footfalls, displaced air, _anything_ to leave him less blind, _fuck_ —

"In the _forests_ of the _night_ ,"

The tone is far less angelic now, edging closer to the unsettling shape of accent that plays its melody in Sebastian's mind damn near constantly (command bound in every letter), and each syllable is carefully measured, rhythmic, each word sounding like the end of a prayer sewn of silk and sin, and when the next line comes—

"What  _immorrrtal_ hand,"

—the voice is so close to Sebastian's ear that he jerks in spite of himself, burn flaring in his wrists where the ropes have cut into his skin, and an icy finger brushes his tingling, nerveless palm,

"Or eye,"

The pad of a thumb drags up his cheek, nearly catching the flesh of his sclera before he snaps his eyelid shut tight,

"Could frame thy fearful... _symmetry_?"

Three fingers blaze a frigid trail along the skin of Sebastian's inner thigh, furrowing the hair, lighting Sebastian's body with a familiar mix of arousal and dread.

"In what _dis_ tant _deeps_ or _skies,"_

 _ _And (_ __fuck_ __)_ _the sudden caress of cold steel against his naked sternum knots his muscles into tight coils reminiscent of the knots around his wrists,_ _

__“__ _Burnt_ the fire of thine _eyes_?”

The flat of the blade moves, drags over his left nipple, and he lets in a hiss of air as he arches toward— _away_ —he’s not sure, his head is swimming and he needs to _see—_

 _ _“__ On what wings _dare_ he aspire? What the hand dare _seize_ the _fire_?”

Suddenly fierce, nearly angry, reminding him of the metallic catch and slide of a rifle’s safety being removed, and Sebastian bites back something startlingly close to a whimper. The weight of the blade disappears and he’s alone in the darkness again until—

“And what shoulder, and what… _art,_ ”

 _Oh fuck, fuck,_ the knife is back, gently stroking the tender flesh high up on the inside of his thigh where the cool fingers touched before, and Sebastian tries to reign back the reflexive flinch, keeping his muscles tight,

“Could twist the sinews of thy… _heart_?”

The blade moves up a fraction and Sebastian’s muscles coil tighter, and he hopes to fucking Christ that Jim has some kind of abnormally good night vision because that knife is getting a little fucking close to—

“And when thy heart began to _beat_ ,”

The edge of cruel laughter hidden behind the words lets Sebastian know that Jim can guess exactly he’s thinking, and he lets out a shaking breath, trying to shut off his unhelpful brain, trying to remember how to breathe, trying not to—

“What dread hand? what dread _feet_?”

The knife turns softly against his leg, imitating the caress of a lover, and kisses his skin, point pressing sharp between his thighs. Sebastian tries not to swear as he feels a burst of warmth, barest scent of blood shimmering in the darkness. The knife disappears again.

It’s only the absence of the next line that makes Sebastian realize how much he’s been hinging on the sound of the voice, holding it tight to him like a jagged tether, letting his entire being balance on every consonant and vowel. The return of utter stillness and silence to the tomb of the room unsettles him and he’s straining his eyes and ears again, waiting. Thinking. About how Jim is so fucking volatile with his games, unpredictable as desert storms, and suddenly Sebastian’s questioning whether the knife is going to just be for foreplay this time. If Jim is finally tired of playing with him, and this is the final act, this is exactly how he’d sculpt it, the sickening build-up to a bloody crescendo, with Sebastian tied and naked and helpless and very aware of the fact that months back he’d handed the keys to his life and death over to Jim without hesitation—Jim would enjoy the poetry of it, just like he’s enjoying stringing Sebastian along with poetry right now. Nameless emotion shudders through Sebastian, anticipation searing his veins with every endless moment of silence, and his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost misses the next words when they finally come, barely a whisper of air across his chest:

“What the hammer? what the chain?”

The flavor of the words has changed—where before they were glass and cinder, they’re now clay and river, the sound of rain over worn cobblestones,

“In what furnace was thy brain?”

the voice asks him softly, a bewildered child, a changeling’s deceptive lure,

“What the anvil? what dread _grasp_ ,”

it continues, suddenly sharp, cruel, impatient, a hive of bees about to burst.

“ _Dare_ its deadly terrors clasp?”

The snick-hiss of a match follows, the sudden blaze of fire nearly blinding. Sebastian squints, desperate to seefor the first time in hours, and watches as the flame slowly rises. And there he is—the devil illuminated by hellfire, planes of his face ridged in shadow, thin lips curled around the body of a cigarette. He touches the flame to the end, takes a leisurely drag, and then looks directly at Sebastian. The fire catches the coals of his eyes and their jagged edges seem to burrow so deep into Sebastian’s core that he’s impaled and cannot look away, a worm on a hook. He catches a glimpse of those wicked lips curling upward before the flame flicks out of existence, and he’s not sure whether the return of darkness is blessed or paralyzing.

“When the stars threw down,”—soft exhale—“their spears,”

Sebastian is transfixed by the glow of the ember tracing a burning path through the blackness, feels like he can almost see the words as they’re spoken, inscribed in smoke and the acrid burn of the tobacco.

“And watered heaven with their _tears_ ,”

There’s a dangerous lilt to the tone now, and a new shiver of trepidation judders through Sebastian. That voice is promising something (Sebastian’s not sure he wants to know what), and it's intensified by a few long minutes of nothing at all but nearly inaudible breathing and the steady movement of the ember. Before tonight, Sebastian was always fond of the quiet, but now he feels the long pauses between sounds burrowing into his skull and chipping away at his lucidity. His mind is balanced on the edge of that knife, and the agony of anticipation rings through his body, leaving dizziness and gripping tension in its wake.

“Did he smile his work to see?”

The voice is a collection of too many things, is too many places to trace, and even though Sebastian _knows_ it’s Jim and can practically see him now in his mind’s eye, limbs flowing like smoke as Sebastian follows the cherry of the cigarette around the room to find him, the voice seems to promise so much more than he can ever hope to withstand, and he doesn’t want to do this anymore, doesn’t want to be trapped like this, and distantly he thinks _so this is what it’s like_ before the burning glow he’s been fixated on suddenly halts mid-air and then moves toward him, hovering a few inches over his stomach.

Sebastian is once more piercingly aware of the ropes binding his wrists as a sharp bolt of anxiety tightens his hands into fists. He’s been the perpetrator of the ugly damage left by cigarette burns, heard the resultant agony, wrinkled his nose at the stench of burning flesh and blood. He’s got no desire to be on the other end, even for the sake of Jim’s whims. But even as the thought crosses his mind, the ember descends until the tender skin of Sebastian’s lower abdomen can nearly feel its heat, and Sebastian abruptly goes from frozen to struggling, fists clenched and straining at the restraints, unable to think past the mantra of _fight_ _escapeFIGHTrun_ until the dark gives a soft, vaguely disappointed sigh that stills him more suddenly than a gun pressed to his skull could.

He sucks in a desperate breath, willing his pulse to slow, rational brain trying without success to overcome instinct, when the icy fingers return to his cheek, sliding down his jaw and along the curve of his jugular, and Sebastian shudders as the touch guides him toward acceptance. And he realizes he's hard as a fucking rock, God help him, world narrowing to the touch and the wait before the voice speaks, and he fights the surrender even though it’s pointless because just by being here he’s already surrendered everything, everything that matters, done it happily, even, because Jim makes his world clear-cut and sharp as glass and the way he’s sunk his teeth into Sebastian is better than nearly fucking everything.

“Ji—” his voice cracks, he licks his lips, finds his own voice finally: “ _Boss_ ,” and the traitorous emotion sends the pitch toward tenor, quavering tones. There’s a soft huff of laughter, and Sebastian grits his teeth, hating being caught in this web of weakness but at the same time knows he’s leaning into the brush of fingers on his neck as best he can, because even now he wants. _Needs_. Is desperate for.

“Did he who made the Lamb make thee?” Jim replies softly, and that voice, that fucking _impossible_ voice has warped into something like the feel of a trigger under Seb’s finger, like the way Jim writhes beneath him and leaves his body wrung out and painted with marks, like the quick delighted flash of teeth Sebastian occasionally gets when he’s done something Jim finds amusing, and it makes something in Sebastian’s taught muscles forcibly unclench as his breath stutters in his throat. He distantly realizes the ember is gone as the fingers release his throat, only to slide along his thigh, pressing incandescent against the graze the knife left. Sebastian’s pulse thunders hot and heavy in his ears, down his spine, shoots through his cock as Jim’s thumb, wet with his own blood, traces his lower lip, and his tongue darts out to taste its benediction, communion, salvation, and he’s reminded of all the reasons, his purpose, the blackened threads of his necessity and desire to never be anywhere but here.

Then there’s pressure at each of his wrists in turn and he feels steel bump against the skin over his veins, but the release of the ropes still catches him completely off guard, his hands falling limply to his sides as he continues to try to catch his breath. There’s a click and the room is suddenly bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp—it’s unbearably bright, and Sebastian swears and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to open them again as soon as possible, needing to be ready for whatever’s next. When he manages it, Jim is standing in the doorway, besuited and immaculate as ever except for a smudge of Sebastian’s blood on his cheek, and Sebastian feels dizzy pleasure at the look on Jim’s face, that flash of teeth that says _aren’t you fun?_

And Sebastian thinks, God, you crazy _fuck_ , and Jim’s smile widens just before he turns on his heel and leaves the room, calling back “Stop dawdling, Seb, we’ve _work_ to do,” and Sebastian lets his head hit the pillow, sore wrists coming up to press at his eyes, skin stinking of sweat and fear, belly curling with desire and (God help him) awe, and he laughs, and laughs, and follows Jim.


End file.
